The Reichenbach Estate
by JJJJ12
Summary: Edwardian/Pre-WWI AU. Sherlock Holmes is content living at the Reichenbach Estate with the Watson family and spending his free-time assisting the Scotland Yard with cases. That all changes when Lady Molly Hooper, the bane of his existence, moves in to find herself a husband in London. Over the course of her stay, the two discover that there's a very thin line between love and hate.
1. Prologue

The air was cold. Damp. Humid. An unpleasant reminder of the unbearable rain that had assaulted London over the past weeks. How anyone could live in such conditions was an awful thought…

Of course, for Sherlock Holmes, it didn't particularly matter. He had a footman to carry an umbrella, a chauffeur to drive him, and a valet to undress him if his attire were ever to be battered by the dirty raindrops of the city. But, he supposed for the poor individuals outside of his circle, the rain most certainly would have been a nightmare.

At the thought of others, he rolled his eyes and brought another forkful to his mouth, not particularly caring for the exotic seasonings that the Watson household had begun to employ with their meals. When the couple returned from a trip around the world, their lovely estate had begun to sprout colors and designs that Sherlock had admired for years in his readings. And while he may have been a fan of the design changes, he much preferred his food extremely British— tasteless.

"And these poor little lads, running around begging for pounds, all while the rain just soaked them!" Mary Watson continued, dramatically dabbing at a nonexistent tear in the corner of her eye, "Oh, it just about broke my heart!"

"You mustn't continue to visit the orphanage, my lady. You have no idea what sorts of sicknesses those kids will pass on," Anderson, their lead Butler, announced, refilling their glasses with a fake sort of dignity that Sherlock loathed.

Mary scowled at his words and continued to eat. "Nonsense. I enjoy visiting the children, so I shall continue."

At his wife's tone, John shifted and sent Anderson a look, warning the man to leave the room immediately. He did as told, leaving the three adults and sleepy child to continue to dine.

"So," John began, watching Sherlock with a curious gaze, "You've been rather quiet this evening."

Sherlock shrugged and sipped his drink, glancing momentarily at the Watsons' child, who had decided that her food would taste better in one giant lump on the plate. Rosie just grinned at her god father's attention.

"Is it perhaps because you heard the news? You must have. The lady maids have not stopped gossiping all day long." John continued on, giving his friend a meaningful look.

Sherlock scowled and glared at John. "No, John, I do not waste my time listening to the hearsay of your lady maids. Now, out with it."

John's lips twitched into a pleasant smirk, knowing that his words would surely infuriate his best mate. Preparing himself for the worst, Sherlock took another gulp of his wine.

What would it be? Another baby on the way? A war on the horizon? Another bloody dog to chase Sherlock around the house?

But at the sight of Mary sharing the grin, he just knew.

 _Oh, no._

"Molly will be staying with us indefinitely. Her father agrees that finding a husband will be far easier in London than in Manchester. There's a better crop of men here." John just smirked, knowing the name would light Sherlock's nerves on fire.

And his cock.

 _Stop that!_

Sherlock rose to his feet, glaring at the Watsons, Rosie included.

"Well, thank you for absolutely ruining my dinner. Perhaps my night. In fact, let's just assume my entire week. Good night."

And with that, Sherlock disappeared through the doors, leaving John and Mary to exchange bewildered looks.

Until they both erupted into a fit of giggles.

Xxx

Sherlock sat alone in his library, his feet perched upon his desk, a glass of scotch between his fingers. His head lolled back and forth as his brain tormented him with the thoughts of what was to come.

Of all the awful things that could occur in his life! Sickness, another nine months of an expecting Mary Watson, the departure of his only trusted valet, a war… Her arrival would have to be the worst possible one.

Oh, how Sherlock _despised_ Lady Molly Hooper, the daughter of Hugh and Edna Hooper, the Earl and Countess of Barrow, a spiraling estate outside of Manchester.

 _Not bloody far enough._

Molly was John's cousin and had positively nagged Sherlock since the moment he turned eight years old. From that year, she began showing up every summer for three-month long stays, desperate to make his life a living hell. Because before that moment, all had been right in the world.

Sherlock and John shared grandparents, the studious and insightful Warren Watson, and the once lively and vivacious Katherine Watson, Earl and Countess of Reichenbach. They had two children—Patrick and Violet. Patrick went on to have John and the late Harriet Watson, who unfortunately had passed away two years prior to tuberculous. Violet had gone on to marry a mild-mannered, middle-class attorney from Brighton by the name of Arthur Holmes. Sherlock and his haughty, incredibly irritating brother Mycroft, would follow suit.

When John's parents passed away, he of course inherited the estate as well as the entirety of the Watson fortune. And when Sherlock's own parents died, given Sherlock's father's modest beginning, he received only a small sum. Instead of finding himself in a home that would be insultingly below his status, he accepted John's invite to continue to reside in Reichenbach, of course until he would choose to wed. Which he wouldn't.

At any rate, with Mycroft involved in politics or whatever boring things he did to occupy himself deep in the city, Sherlock's only true friends (and family) were John and his wife Mary, as well as their almost five-year-old daughter, Rosamund. She was Sherlock's god daughter, and one of the brightest lights in his life.

His happiness at the thought of Rosie immediately vanished when he remembered Molly's pending arrival. He wasn't finished recounting their dreadful time together.

Molly was the niece of John's mother, formerly Lady Anne Cornell before her marriage into the Watson family. Anne was the daughter of an American oil baron, and at the peak of her family's fortune, was sent to England with her sister, in the hopes of snagging a husband within the English aristocracy. Anne had wed John's father, eventually to give birth to two children. Her sister, Edna, however, wed Hugh Hooper, the Count of Barrow.

Molly's mother eventually died only a few years after her birth, leaving her to grow up with just her grieving father. And since the summer Sherlock had turned eight, Molly herself only six, she had been sent down to the Reichenbach Estate, equipped with only trunks and her devoted lady-in-waiting, Meena. She would stay the entire summer, learning to be a lady with her dearest Aunt Anne, and playing with her favorite cousin Harriet.

But oh, how Sherlock despised her! She had shown up that first summer, causing his Uncle Patrick to halt their planned hunt, and instead fill their afternoon with a picnic in the garden. She arrived in her best dress (a ghastly shade of pink), her hair done up in intricate plaits, a flower tucked behind her ear.

And oh, how she pretended to be so polite, graciously thanking her hosts and laughing every time pleasantries were exchanged. Everyone loved her.

It made Sherlock sick.

No, he was _not_ jealous that Harriet no longer helped him play tricks on John to instead spend her days having tea with Molly. No, he was _not_ jealous that John would prefer to paint pictures of the tress with Molly then help him solve cases within the estate. No, he was _not_ jealous that his Aunt and Uncle seemed smitten with their niece, giving her more smiles than Sherlock had ever received.

He had never and would never be jealous of Lady Molly Hooper.

But as she got older, things got worse. She blossomed from this tiny little girl with flowers tucked into her hair into a full-blown demon. She would gallivant across the estate, befriending the maids and the footmen, claiming that they were just like her. She would sew patches into her own gowns, skip through the puddles of mud, desire to go hunting with the men… where would the madness end?

And perhaps Sherlock could have tolerated her desire for women's independence, and the right to vote, and all that ludicrous socialist propaganda. Quite frankly, he didn't care. But what he did care about was her constant bloody presence in his library. And it was _his_ library.

Because when his grandfather died, he promised that Sherlock could claim the space as his own, since he knew how much reading meant to the young man. Yet, as soon as those summer months hit, Sherlock would no longer enjoy the promised seclusion of the room, the smell of the ink on pages, or the leather-bound volumes, or the hint of scotch that permeated through the air and reminded him of the man he lost.

No, instead the room would smell of roses and Molly. She would never leave. He'd enter in the morning to find her curled into his favorite chair, her nose buried within a book about Latin or the bloody American Revolt. By the afternoon, she'd be at his desk, scribbling away a letter to her father. And by the evening, she'd be back to reading along the sofa, casually tucked into his one place to escape.

And when the summer of Molly's coming of age came around, things only became worse. Sherlock had returned from his first year at University to find the girl buried in suitors, as if every bloody eligible bachelor within a forty-mile radius could smell her appeal.

What was even more frustrating about Molly was that she never accepted any of the proposals. And by Sherlock's account, since her entrance into society, approximately eight years ago, she had turned at least nine offers of marriage down. From Dukes, to Earls, to politicians, to American heirs… Her answer was always a firm no.

Sherlock cursed and shut his eyes, his curls brushing against the leather of his favorite seat. A seat that would almost certainly be claimed by Lady Molly Hooper upon her arrival.

Perhaps her father had gotten sick of her rejections of multiple marriage proposals. She was four and twenty, and certainly not getting any younger. Sherlock assumed he would have received the same sentiment from his own parents, if they were still alive, given his age of six and twenty.

He finished his scotch in one final gulp, cursing what the next few days would bring. As he rose to his feet and looked around his lovely library, he whispered a hushed goodbye.

Because as soon as Molly arrived, he would never have the room to himself.

 _Damn you, Molly Hooper._


	2. Lady Molly Hooper

Lady Molly Hooper was the root of most of the injustices in Sherlock's short life. Well, according to him, that was. His journey into adulthood had been marred by her constant presence, soft voice, and petite build, all haunting him even in his sleep. But even though he would never admit it, her presence sparked something within him. Something he did not support. Something he… ignored.

He remembered the moment that everything had changed. He had just celebrated his fourteenth birthday, all lanky limbs and snarky retorts. It had been the last birthday he celebrated with his parents, making the memory even more bittersweet. His family had so graciously decided to throw him a wonderful party, filled with extravagant foods and desserts. Of course, none of that was exactly Sherlock's speed, so he found himself hiding in one of the barns, sitting amongst the cows.

He was perfectly content with his nose buried in _The Wizard of Oz_ , wondering what life would be like outside of the tiny bubble of their estate. But, his birthday wishes were presently ignored, as a twelve-year-old Molly Hooper appeared, all big smiles and ribbons in her hair. She proceeded to talk Sherlock's ear off, preventing him from grasping even a single word within the novel.

And once he finally grew irritated enough to silence the girl, his harsh words were quieted before they left his mouth, swallowed in the soft, supple lips of Molly. Her chaste kiss had left him frozen in surprise, only to stare at her eyes, that were for once squeezed shut in concentration.

When he finally got the social graces to respond by pushing her away, she was too quick and jumped away from him. And even before he could lash out at her for her childish actions, she just smiled shyly, whispered a "Happy Birthday, Sherlock" and disappeared out of the barn.

After losing his first kiss to a thief, Sherlock desperately hoped that he would never have to encounter Lady Molly Hooper again.

As expected, that was not the case.

There was then the time, at sixteen years, that Sherlock had developed his true affinity for solving mysteries, and frequently roamed the estate at night, looking for something out of the ordinary. On one evening, he stumbled past an ajar door, peaking inside to watch a half-dressed Molly dancing by herself.

He had never considered her a sexual being prior to that moment. He normally didn't even consider himself a sexual being—it was terrible how John let his sexual urges and attraction to ladies control his every movement. So, even at sixteen, Sherlock desired to suppress any of those unwanted feelings.

Of course, fourteen-year-old Molly had just sprouted small but pert breasts, and her shapely legs and hips were too much under Sherlock's gaze. He was embarrassed to find himself, later that evening, utilizing his hand to finally relieve some of his stresses, her smooth skin on his mind.

But those moments were nothing compared to Sherlock's eighteenth birthday, a day he frequently tried to forget, and refused to really interpret his actions. He was an intelligent man. He knew exactly what his decisions meant. Alas, he still decided to ignore them.

The birthday had fallen only four weeks after John's own eighteenth birthday, and John's father had insisted on taking the boys into the city, to a special location to, as he so delicately put it, "become men." And so, John and Sherlock followed Patrick into the discreet home, both smart enough to know where they were, yet innocent enough to not fully comprehend what their evening would entail.

Sherlock was unsurprised when John selected a slim, blonde woman with a large chest to accompany him for the evening. Deep down, he was also unsurprised when he gravitated towards a petite brunette, with a small chest and shapely legs.

His choice did not justify his request for her to douse her body in rose water, or to dress in a ghastly pink frock. It did not justify his insistence on taking her from behind, brutally holding her hips, listening to her delightful squeals, but to never see her face or meet her eyes.

Like a true gentleman, he had not been explicitly educated on sex, but it was nothing that a few discreet reads and an afternoon watching the barn animals could not fix. And just like the cows, he took the woman from behind.

Perhaps he was an animal. That was the only way he excused his actions.

Every subsequent visit to the same sort of home, to request the services of the same sort of women, always ended the same way. The scent of rose water filling his nostrils, and a petite brunette taking the brunt of his aggression.

He made himself sick.

It only made him hate Molly Hooper more.

Xxx

Lady Molly Hooper did feel a bit guilty that she was so excited to return to the Reichenbach Estate. She had grown up visiting the enormous estate and began to reside there every summer after the death of her beloved mother. But, within the past few years, with the death of her favorite cousin Harriet, and cousin John's marriage and later child, circumstances had changed. She hadn't visited since Christmas of the previous year, and stayed for only a fortnight, certain that her father would miss her too much.

Yet, her father's decision to send her back to Reichenbach indefinitely spoke heaps about his frustration at the present.

He wanted Molly to get married.

She sighed and looked out the window of the car, so thankful for the development of the vehicle. Oh, what an improvement the automobile made to her childhood journeys to Reichenbach! The train rides were always pleasant, but the fifteen-mile journey from the train station to the estate were always brutal. The automobile only made it more bearable.

The sun was already setting, darkening the once clear skies. She knew from her memory of the area that she was only some four miles away from the estate. She could already feel her palms tinging, her throat closing, and her stomach in knots.

Reichenbach had changed considerably since the death of her Aunt and Uncle. When Harriet died, she could feel the cloud of despair over the place. And while she loved John and Mary, and now Rosamund, the estate was lacking a spark that once kept her excited to visit, summer after summer.

And then there was Sherlock Holmes.

She frowned and unconsciously primped her hair, trying to prepare herself for whatever harsh words he'd throw her way. He gave no care to her feelings, nor to the expectations of an English gentleman. He did and said exactly what he wanted, whenever he wanted.

It was ironic, really. Just as Sherlock disregarded right from wrong and did whatever he desired, so too did her heart. Or, at least that was the only explanation she could give for her continued infatuation with the man.

Xxx

Sherlock watched as she floated from the automobile to the entrance of Reichenbach, her ghastly pink frock billowing in the wind behind her. She hid her composed chocolate waves underneath an enormous hat, clearly right from a shop in London.

And she did float. It was as if she was gliding on bloody water as she marched up the stairs, stopping as the doors shot open, and the Watson family strolled out, bringing her in for hugs and kisses. Sherlock scowled and moved away from the window, determined to enjoy his last moments of freedom.

He grabbed his violin and disappeared into his library, praying this ordeal would be over soon.

In the entryway, Molly gifted little Rosamund with a doll she had picked up during her stop in the city, holding a pleasant smile as the little girl squealed and spun around with it. Molly looked to her cousin with a soft smile.

"My father sends his love," Molly began, removing her gloves as she entered the house, "He hopes to pay us a visit within the month. Of course, he's hoping by then I'll have a suitor he can meet as well."

John gave her one of his boyish smiles. "I'm pleased to hear from Uncle Hugh. I look forward to catching up with him. He always has such fascinating opinions when it comes to politics."

Mary rolled her eyes. "You all have opinions, especially when you get a bit of liquor in you."

He leaned over and pressed his lips to his wife's. "Indeed." He turned to look at Molly, his expression losing its previous playfulness. "Mary and I have many friends we think you'd be a good match for. Any man would be happy to take you as his wife."

Molly forced a smile and sat down on a sofa in the sitting room, keeping her eyes set on Rosie, who was happily brushing the doll's hair. "Now, isn't that a pity? That I should have to be taken as a wife? Why not a man taken as my husband?"

Mary smirked and opened her mouth, but John shot her look. She sighed and sat down, squeezing her husband's hair.

"Look, Molly, I realize the circumstances aren't the greatest but—"

Molly couldn't help but laugh, causing John to swallow his remaining words.

"Not the greatest? John, I will be denied my inheritance, my title, and my entire livelihood if I don't find myself a husband. What my grandparents thought would ensure me buckling down with a strapping gentleman and a lifetime of happiness has proven to just make me miserable."

Mary frowned and squeezed Molly's hand. "I know, Molly. It's awful."

Molly frowned and stuck her nose up, forcing herself to take a deep breath. "I will not feel sorry for myself. I have two options. I either marry a man who I likely do not and will never love, or, I die an old, poor hag."

John smiled softly and grabbed her free hand. "If it's any consolation, we would never leave you in the cold. You'd always have a place here, should you need it."

"And," Mary added on, "You're beautiful and you have a wonderful title. It will not be difficult to find a man. In fact, I can't think of a single gentleman who wouldn't give everything to be your husband."

Almost on cue, Sherlock strolled in, impeccably dressed with dashing curls falling into his aqua eyes. Molly sighed.

"Wrong you are, Mary Watson. I can think of many men who would rather be castrated than share a marital bed with Lady Hooper."

John gasped. "Sherlock, would you please show more respect—"

Molly rose to her feet and glared at Sherlock. "You misunderstand Mary, Mr. Holmes. She specified gentleman. Given that you are not one, and do not engage with any sort of man, sans my cousin, of course you would draw a blank."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat beside John, keeping his eyes locked on Molly. "You know, Lady Hooper," He continued, "Perhaps you should look at the estate being tied to your marital status as a blessing."

Molly practically scowled. "And how do you figure that, Mr. Holmes?"

"It's not like anyone would marry you without the promise of a stately home and a wonderful title. Play your cards right and you could land just about any needy man south of Edinburgh, should you so desire."

"What, like yourself?" She couldn't help but spit back.

The room grew silent. John gave Mary a desperate look. The household very rarely spoke of the Holmes' family financial situation. While Mycroft and Sherlock were by no means poor, and by the standards of most of the country, fairly well off, they were considered… less privileged than the likes of the circle that the Watsons and Molly hung around with.

While John and Molly had estates and heirlooms left to their name reaching to hundreds of thousands of pounds, the twenty thousand pounds apiece left for Sherlock and Mycroft after their parents' death was measly in comparison. Mycroft has begun to subsidize his income with his work for the government, but Sherlock assisting Scotland Yard with solving crimes, and selling his occasional violin composition, did little to aid his stunted earnings.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and sat up rigidly straight. "No, Lady Hooper, not like me. For I have more self-respect than to marry the likes of you for a couple of hundred thousand pounds and an estate in bloody Manchester."

Molly stood up and glared at him. "A couple hundred thousand pounds? Try eight hundred thousand, Mr. Holmes. And I'm glad you value your standing, as no one else does. I don't believe even marrying me would save your reputation."

With that, she turned on her heels and stormed up the stairs, ready to inhabit the same bedroom she had lived in, summer after summer. Upon her departure, the room grew silent again. Mary sensed John's pending outburst, and quickly grabbed Rosie to take the young girl for a stroll outside.

Sherlock remained seated, his arms crossed, a look of petulance across his features. John had proceeded to drop his head to his hands, mumbling about murder. Finally, at the sound of Rosie's excited squeals from the garden, John glanced over his cousin, his eyes murderous.

As he opened his mouth to give Sherlock a verbal lashing, the man beat him to it, simply raising his hand. John scowled.

"Must you bore me with another tirade? I'm aware that I showed little civility towards your cousin, but I find myself unable to ever treat her with the respect that a lady deserves," Sherlock remarked, clearly bored with the conversation.

John growled and jumped to his feet. "You don't get to speak like that! Not in my home!" He spat out, for once appearing truly angry with Sherlock.

Sherlock couldn't help but roll his eyes. "Look, I will try to remain civil, but you know how I feel about the woman. You can hardly expect me to rejoice in her stay here."

"You don't get to feel any particular way about her arrival, Sherlock. While you may be family and my dearest friend, you are still a guest in my home."

Sherlock couldn't help the twitch in his jaw. "What exactly are you getting at, Watson?"

John shook his head and ran a shaking hand through his hair. "You act like a gentleman and show my dear cousin respect, or you can leave. It's quite simple."

"John—"

"Enough," He spat out, moving towards the door. He turned and gave Sherlock one last look.

"I'm not sure what you're getting at with Molly, Sherlock. I never have. But for once in your life, act like a man."

He stormed out of the sitting room, leaving Sherlock to fume over his words. Sherlock quickly jumped to his feet and moved to the bar, pouring himself a generous glass of Scotch. He took a sip and let out a ragged breath, angry at himself. Angry at the entire bloody situation.

But most of all, angry at Lady Molly Hooper.

Xxx

That evening, as she sat in the middle of the familiar yet foreign bed, she finally succumbed to the tears that had threatened to fall earlier in the day. Her consistent tugs of the comb through her wavy hair ceased as her body began to convulse, soft sobs escaping her lips.

She was twenty-four with no marriage prospects on the horizon, being forced to wed to maintain her life by the archaic contract of her long-dead grandparents. And now, she was shipped away to Reichenbach, unsure of when she'd return to her home and her loving father.

Fat tears streamed down her cheeks, posing as a cruel reminder of his callous words. Molly wasn't sure why she was crying.

Was she crying from the loss of her freedoms, freedoms that she never truly held? Was she crying because of her pending nuptials to a man that she likely wouldn't love?

 _No._

Today had been the final confirmation she needed, destroying any last hopes she held onto.

Sherlock Holmes would never return her affections.

He was the source of her tears. Just as he had always been. Just as he always would be.

Xxx

That evening, as he sat in the middle of the familiar yet foreign bed, he finally succumbed to the tears that had threatened to fall earlier in the day.

The soft mass of skin and rose-scented hair shifted beside him, quickly rising to her feet, looking around for her discarded frock. Sherlock watched the nameless girl, finally getting to see her face. It wasn't as cherubic as he would have liked, nor did she have the piercing brown eyes he ached to see.

Noticing his attention, the girl blushed and slipped the frock over her head. "We're happy to see you again, Mr. Holmes," she began, her voice grating on his nerves like John's endless chatter.

He shifted in the bed, grabbing the bottle of scotch that sat on the nightstand. He poured himself a glass and took a gulp, watching as the girl readied herself.

"Please let Miss Francis know that you are pleased with my performance," She tied her hair back into a composed bun and gave him a cheerful smile, "Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Holmes."

And just as she had come in, she disappeared. Sherlock rose to his feet, ignoring the bile rising in his stomach, the same feeling of unease that always accompanied him when he visited these sorts of places. The types of places that no honorable gentleman had any business frequenting. Yet, they all did. Every one of them.

 _Except John. Not anymore._

As he buckled his trousers and fixed his shirt, he hands brushed across his cheeks and jerked back in surprise. He brought his hands to the light, studying the unwelcome tears that now burned into his skin.

He pulled a cigarette out of his jacket pocket and stormed out of the facility, ignoring the inquiries from Miss Francis about his evening. The brisk, London evening immediately soothed his nerves.

And as he sat in the back of the car, ignoring the curious looks of his chauffer, he allowed his mind to wander.

Today had been the final confirmation he needed, destroying any last hopes he held onto.

Molly Hooper would never return his affections.

He was the source of her tears. Just as he had always been. Just as he always would be.


	3. Sweet Revenge

Molly soon reacquainted herself with the grounds of the estate, discovering every nook and cranny that she once inhabited as a young girl. She immersed herself in the sunlight that seeped through the sitting room on the second floor, the taste of Miss Reynolds' cherry tarte on her tongue, and the smell of the leather-bound books in the library.

 _His library._

She had avoided the room for days upon arrival, knowing the scowls he'd send her direction when they'd eventually end up sharing the room. He was quick to insult her reading choices, or the scent of her perfume, or even her very presence.

But by the third day, she found herself unable to hold out any longer. The only remedy for her jittery nerves would be a novel, one that would whisk her away to another world, one where she was in charge of her own life. One where her mother and favorite cousin were accompanying her. One where she wasn't in love with the foulest man in all of England.

Yet, now sitting at the dinner table, joined by John, Mary, and Rosamund, she asked the question that had been on her brain since the morning after her arrival.

"Where is Sherlock?" She forced herself to ask, her eyes locked on the delicious soup in front of her.

Mary glanced over at John, who angrily shoved another spoonful into his mouth. She sighed and squeezed her husband's hand, trying to calm him down. He'd been in a right mood since the evening of Molly's arrival, given Sherlock's awful comments.

Of course, it didn't help that he had up and disappeared after their row.

"Well, he's uh… We're not quite sure to be honest. Detective Inspector Lestrade called upon him. So… He disappeared. Usually he drags John along with him but—"

John slammed his hands on the table, causing the dishes to rattle and Rosie to let out a delighted squeal.

"But not this time!" He hissed out, his eyes as angry as they were nights ago, "Not after the disgusting way he treated you!"

Molly smiled sadly and shook her head. "John, I appreciate your kind concern but… Don't worry about the way he treats me. I'm a big girl."

"That doesn't matter!" He quipped, shoving another spoonful in his mouth, "If you're a bloody big girl, he's a nasty little monster! A beast! The creature that will eat you alive!"

"Uncle Sherly is a monster!" Rosie announced delightedly. Mary scowled at John and turned to settle Rosie down.

"John," Molly began again, her eyes locked on her soup bowl, "Please don't worry about me. I'll do what I've always done when staying here."

"Molly…" He began, his voice concerned.

"I'll ignore him," She whispered, finally meeting his gaze, "He's hurt me enough in the past that his words no longer mean anything."

"You don't mean that." He urged, his face falling.

Molly sat up and forced a smile. "I do. Besides, I do believe I have a task, now don't I?" She turned to Mary, "Would you two happen to know any potential eligible bachelors in the area?"

Mary couldn't help but grin. "I do! We can start with my cousin Maxwell. I always thought he'd be a charming fit for you. Then there's Charles down at the Yard, and that railway bloke from America," She turned and looked at John, "What was his name, love?"

John sighed and continued eating, "His name was Alexander," He looked at Molly, "We'll bring over whoever you'd like to meet. If you're sure about this, of course."

Molly sipped her drink and gave another forced smile.

"Of course, I am. Besides, what choice do I really have?"

Xxx

Detective Inspector Lestrade stared at the photograph in front of him, his mouth agape. He looked back at Sherlock, who leaned against the door of the office, casually smoking a cigarette.

"You're meaning to tell me that the murdered woman was part of the Russian aristocracy? Surely you must be mistaken!" Lestrade sputtered out, again glancing down at the gorgeous woman gracing the frame of the photograph.

Sherlock sighed and took a puff of his cigarette. "I'm never mistaken, Lestrade. She's the second cousin of Tsar Nicolas," he began, taking another hit in between his words, "Or rather, she was."

Lestrade groaned. "So, we have to get the ambassador involved? Oh, Christ! This should be out of my jurisdiction!"

Sherlock shrugged and buttoned up his coat. "My job here is done."

The detective inspector grumbled to himself and set the photograph down, glancing over at Sherlock again. "Very well. Where was Watson in all of this? Has the Missus locked him down?"

At the mention of John, Sherlock scowled and turned to the door. "Never mind him. I solved the case just fine without his assistance."

Lestrade blinked. "Ah. I see. You two had a row."

Sherlock growled. "Lestrade, I suggest you focus on your own affairs. Such as your wife's infidelity."

And with that, he stormed out of the office, dreading his return to Reichenbach.

Xxx

Tucked into their martial bed, wrapped in nothing but the finest sheets on the market, Mary and John relaxed in each other's arms. John contently played with her blonde ringlets, enjoying the silky-smooth feeling between his fingers. Mary had begun to trace one of the many scars littering his chest, her lips and fingers alternating the job.

At the sound of her husband's sigh, she knew they had things to discuss. Or rather, two particular guests in their home.

"I just don't understand," John began, beating Mary to the punch, "why he treats her the way he does. He's always been like this. Since her first summer here when we were children he's been nothing but a cruel git."

Mary frowned and moved closer to her husband, resting her head on his chest, letting the sound of his beating heart soothe her.

"He's always been like that?" She asked.

John sighed. "Yes. Always. Now, when our parents were around, he showed a tad more civility but… He was uncommonly cruel. Even Mycroft, who on many accounts is absolutely awful, has only ever shown Molly kindness and respect."

Mary pressed a soft kiss to his chest. "Do you have any idea why?"

John groaned. "Not the slightest. He is cautious of strangers and it's easy to see when he dislikes someone. But even then…" He sighed and looked down at his wife, "I have never seen him treat someone the way he treats her."

"I have a theory," Mary whispered, even the words feeling scandalous on her lips.

John quirked an eyebrow. "Please do share, my love."

Mary sighed and bit her lip, wondering if she was being silly. "Well, I did, at least. After their last interaction, I'm not so sure…"

"Mary. Please. Just share your thoughts."

She sighed again. "Right. Could Sherlock possibly… Be in love with Molly?"

John just blinked, continuing to stare at his wife. "In love? You think he could be in love with her?"

She continued to nibble on her lip, unsure of her words. "Well, think about it. Sherlock is well… He's like a child. He frequently behaves like a six-year-old, between the outbursts, tantrums, his stubbornness, and his sheer determination to make our lives a living hell."

She shifted onto her elbows, laying across her husband's body. "And when a little boy fancies a little girl, he tends to be a bit mean. Pulls her hair, tells her she's dumb, belittles her… It's rather barbaric, but that's what they do."

Mary pressed a wet kiss to John's exposed neck and continued. "So, perhaps, since Sherlock is still a perpetual child, he responds to an infatuation with Molly as a child would. With anger, and vulgarity, and a refusal to acknowledge his feelings."

John stared at his wife, considering her words. "I mean… I certainly thought when we were teenagers that perhaps he may have fancied her but… How could anyone be that cruel to a woman they love?"

Mary sighed and dropped onto his body, reveling in the feel of their skin touching. "I'm not sure, my love. But I don't understand a single thing Sherlock does. I reckon this is no different."

Having enough of the Sherlock discussion, John caught his wife's lips in another passionate kiss.

Xxx

On the other side of the home, Sherlock strolled up the stairs, pleased to be back. While he thrived on assisting Scotland Yard, and as a result was gone frequently, there was nothing he enjoyed more than sleeping in his own bed. Of course, since the night of Molly's arrival a few days prior, he had yet to return.

He turned the corner and pushed open the door, expecting to be assaulted by the scent of leather bound books, stale cigar smoke, and strong Scotch. To his dismay, the stench of roses and woman filled his nostrils, causing him to grip onto the door knob far harder than usual.

 _She's here._

Sherlock strolled inside, clenching and unclenching his fist as he prepared himself for the pending argument that would surely arise. He turned on the light (a recent addition to the home—Mary had been insistent on electricity, whereas John was hesitant to pick up the new invention) and shut the door, his eyes landing on her.

As if desiring a fight, Molly was comfortably tucked into Sherlock's favorite chair, clad in only a white night frock and long dressing gown. She had her legs tucked underneath her, thus containing her tiny body entirely between the chair. Sherlock cleared his throat, causing Molly to sigh and shut the heavy book in her hands.

Sherlock glanced at the title and scowled.

 _Shakespeare. How boring, Molly._

"I would have expected you to be reading some feminist propaganda, or perhaps something more, Austen like," He murmured, moving deeper into the room to settle in front of the bar. He grabbed a glass and poured himself a much-needed drink.

Molly set her book down and remained in her seat, watching Sherlock with hawk-like eyes. "Is it so wrong for me to believe that women deserve the right to vote? Or to be treated equally? Or for me to not have to marry to maintain my land and fortune?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sipped his drink. "Perhaps not. But I worry that your desire for women's rights will be overshadowed by your severe hatred of the male sex."

That made her laugh. "Oh, Sherlock, you are surely mistaken! I do not hate the male sex. I simply hate you."

The air grew thick between the two of them, the smells of the leather-bound books, Sherlock's cigarettes, and Molly's rosy fragrance mixed together, forming a rather intoxicating perfume. Sherlock took another sip of Scotch, his eyes still locked on her form.

"I find myself unsupportive of your cause simply because… Well, it's your cause." He shrugged and set the empty glass down, "While I hate for Mary and Rosamund to be punished, I would also hate to see you rewarded."

Molly immediately rose to her feet and stormed towards him, her eyes furious. Her nose twitched in an adorable manner, and Sherlock couldn't help but be enamored with the way her eyes twinkled.

"Oh, you foul, odious man! What have I ever done to you?" She finally cried out, stomping her foot in a fit of anger.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "My, my, Molly. Just your simple presence for the past eighteen years has been enough to set me on edge."

She shoved him, not moving the man an inch. "I can't believe I was ever stupid enough to fancy you! Of all the ways I could hurt myself, or let my fellow women down, falling in love with you was the severest option."

Her confession had Sherlock staggering back, slamming his back into the desk. He hissed and ran a shaking hand through his curls. He finally met her eyes again.

"You are in love with me?"

She scoffed and shook her head, forcing her features to remain disinterested. "No, Sherlock. I _was_. Thankfully, I learned early on how pathetic of a man you are.'

A low growl escaped his lips, causing him to take a step forward. No one would speak to him like that. Especially not Lady Molly Hooper.

"Pathetic?" He hissed out, his eyes furious, "Why, I think that's rather humorous coming from a woman who is unmarried and unattached at twenty-four years old."

"By choice!" Molly spat, taking a step forward to poke his chest with her finger, "I have turned down many suitors, Sherlock Holmes. I have yet to meet a man worthy of my hand."

He practically snorted. "And what makes a man worthy?"

She took a step closer, her hands shaking. "He needs to be intelligent. Driven. Committed to bettering the estate and the community. Respectful. A true gentleman. Supports my causes and treats me like an equal, not property. He needs to be—"

Sherlock just laughed, causing her to stop and glare at him. "No wonder you've yet to find a man, Molly. He doesn't exist."

She shoved him again. "He is out there and I will find him, Sherlock Holmes!"

"I suggest you keep your hands off me, Lady Molly, or we will surely have a problem."

"Oh?" She smirked, "And how will the mighty Mr. Holmes react?"

He hissed again. "Try again and you'll find out."

She did enjoy playing with fire. She shoved him yet again, and immediately found herself twisted and pressed against the wall, her arms held above her head by the unforgiving grip of Sherlock Holmes.

"Say," He breathed out, his eyes darting between her eyes and lips, "You stole my first kiss. Shall I reclaim it?"

Molly snarled and tried to move her wrists, but was unable in his harsh grip. She showed no fear. Only fury.

"That depends, Mr. Holmes. That would require you to touch me in a manner that seems far below your pompous attitude."

He let out a nefarious grin. "But it would get you to stop running that mouth of yours."

He leaned in and pressed a harsh kiss to her lips, enjoying the soft, supple feel of her mouth on his. His senses were overloading. Between the soft waves of her hair tickling his cheek, to the rosy fragrance of her skin hitting his nostrils, to her smooth skin beneath his shaking hands.

And to his own amazement, Molly was not putting up a fight. She wasn't angrily biting at his lips or shifting in his grasp.

She was meeting the movements of his lips, aggressively returning the fervor of his kiss in a way that had Sherlock's trousers tightening. He dropped one of her wrists and brought his hand to her face, gripping her chin to keep their mouths locked.

And then again, to Sherlock's surprise, her free hand found its way into Sherlock's own messy curls, pulling and twisting the locks. He pushed his tongue into her mouth and practically moaned as hers joined, beginning a pleasurable battle of dominance that had him abandoning her other wrist and moving his hand to her waist.

The kiss only grew more intense, more fevered, more desperate with Molly sprawled against the wall, one hand in Sherlock's hair, the other splayed flat on his muscled chest. Sherlock had dropped both of his hands to her waist, his fingers with a brutal hold on the dressing gown covered skin.

And so, he dominated her mouth, her body, and her mind, his lips and tongue voiding her brain of any thoughts and intelligent reminders for why kissing the man of both her dreams and her nightmares was a terrible idea.

It wasn't until her body was moved against the desk, and her hip sent Sherlock's glass to the ground, that their embrace was interrupted. They both jumped away, as if afraid of being burned. Sherlock flickered his eyes from the wet, glassy mess on the ground, to Molly's red face, illuminated in the novel electricity of the room.

They held each other's gazes, the room quiet sans the blaze burning in the fire place. Molly pulled her dressing gown closer and attempted to fix her hair. She cleared her throat and stuck up her nose, praying to somehow maintain her dignity.

"I believe you reclaimed your stolen kiss, Mr. Holmes," She whispered, desperately trying to avoid the quiver that threatened to slip out.

He simply nodded.

Molly cleared her throat and moved to the door, not even whispering a goodnight as she disappeared from the library. Sherlock remained, his eyes tired.

He grabbed the bottle from the bar and looked down to the broken glass. He shook his head and brought the bottle to his lip, taking a generous gulp.

Her presence would surely kill him.

He was already counting down the days.

 _How can I forget what she tastes like?_


	4. Tea and Toast

When the sun rose the following morning, there was an eerie silence throughout the home. The servants were not as chatty as normal, and the ever-talking Lady Mary Watson had taken Rosamund into town to run a few errands. Molly had rejected the offer, feigning illness, and was still in her quarters when Sherlock sat down for breakfast.

He was joined of course by the man of the house, a very peeved looking John Watson. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sipped the fresh tea placed in front of him by a servant. He flipped open the newspaper handed to him, simply ignoring John's presence.

The boys lasted approximately eight minutes before John could go no longer.

"You disappear and have nothing to say?" John hissed out, crumbling his newspaper as he angrily attempted to close it. One of the servants relieved him of the task upon noticing his discomfort.

Across from him, Sherlock took a bite of his toast, amused by John's anger. "What would you like me to say? I've returned?"

John narrowed his eyes. "You could apologize for your treatment of Molly. That would certainly be a start."

Sherlock sighed and slathered more marmalade on his bread, focusing on his food instead of John. "I will not apologize. But, I will acknowledge that I was perhaps more harsh than necessary. I will try to my utmost ability to be more… polite to Molly in the future."

"More harsh than necessary?" John spat out, the vein in his forehead throbbing, "For someone who is supposed to be an educated gentleman, you acted like a savage!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I would hardly say—"

"Enough," John hissed out, adding more sugar to his tea in hopes of calming himself down, "I'm not sure what you're getting at with Molly, Sherlock. I never have. But if you live in my home, and interact with my family, you will show her respect."

"I thought I was your family," Sherlock announced, rather wistfully.

John frowned. "You're supposed to be. My cousin, my best mate, practically a brother. But when you treat my cousin Molly, one of the sweetest and most wonderful women around like… rubbish, then no. I will not acknowledge you as such."

Sherlock took another bite of toast, knowing when to end the conversation. If John wanted him to be nicer to Molly during her residency at Reichenbach, then fine, he would be perfectly civil. He'd say hello and goodbye, and ignore her for the time in between.

There would be no issue.

He gazed across the table, watching his closest friend and family angrily spread butter onto a piece of bread. He sighed and set his newspaper down in front of them. The front page had Sherlock's face plastered across it.

 _Local Detective Holmes Avenges Slain Russian Aristocrat_

He cleared his throat and looked hesitantly at John. "It's an awful headline, really. I didn't avenge anyone. Simply proved who murdered her."

John picked up the newspaper and let his eyes wander continuously from Sherlock to the photo. He couldn't contain his laughter. Sherlock scowled.

"What's so amusing?"

John continued to laugh, having to take a sip of water to calm himself down. "That bloody hat! It's god awful! And about thirty years out of fashion! Why are you wearing it?"

Sherlock grimaced and crossed his arms. "It was a gift."

"From who? Lord, please tell me it was Mycroft!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and took a sip of tea. "No, you moron, it was your daughter. It seems you pay little attention to what your wife and child purchase."

He shrugged. "There's enough money to go around. I'll have to give Mary a big kiss for picking that one out."

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but stopped when an overwhelming smell of roses assaulted his senses. He immediately looked to the door, unsurprised to see her. An ungodly pink frock, a perfect pearl necklace gifted from her deceased mother, her hair done up in pleasant plaits…

 _Molly._

She gave the servants a friendly greeting and sat beside John, leaving over to give her a cousin a soft kiss on the cheek. She looked in far too good a mood for Sherlock's liking.

"Molly! I'm thrilled to hear you're feeling better. Mary mentioned you were under the weather before she left," John began, grabbing another piece of toast.

She gave him a soft smile. "I feel much better now. Thank you."

Sherlock kept his opinions to himself and sipped his tea, determined to pay her as little attention as possible. Of course, that was rather hard when just her bloody scent had him licking his lips and willing his cock to go down.

As Molly reached to grab a piece of bread, the newspaper caught her attention. At the photo of Sherlock on the front, she smirked and turned to John.

"Say, I helped Rosamund pick this hat out for him," She explained, her cheerful laugh grating on Sherlock's nerves.

At her words, he scowled. "Wait. You picked out the hat?"

Molly couldn't help but smirk as she sipped her tea. "Indeed. Last Christmas I took Rosie into town and for some reason, when she saw the hat, all she could talk about was you. When I helped her purchase and wrap it, I never thought you'd actually wear it."

He couldn't help but frown. "Of course, I'd wear it. My god daughter gifted it to me."

She smiled sadly and began to butter her toast, careful to keep her gaze away from Sherlock. "I don't know what you'd do, Mr. Holmes. You always seem to surprise me."

Sherlock scowled and sipped his tea, his eyes locked on her proper form. "I would—"

His words were cut short when the post was delivered, and each of the three adults was handed a letter. Molly squealed delightedly at the letter from her father and immediately tore into it. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the perfect handwriting of the Russian Ambassador, knowing he was going to get dragged into a much larger investigation than he asked for.

John, however, seemed more intrigued by his letter, addressed from a man that at first glance, Sherlock was unfamiliar with. After a quick read over, John dropped the letter and turned to Molly, a smile on his face.

"Mary's cousin Maxwell is coming in from Sheffield for dinner. He should arrive by tomorrow evening," John announced, quick to thank a servant as his tea was refilled, "Mary will be delighted. Maxwell is quite charming. An excellent hunter as well."

Molly couldn't help but blush at the word of a pending suitor. "Oh. I look forward to meeting him. Was he at your wedding?"

John shook his head and folded the letter back up. "No, he was not. Truthfully, I don't remember why, but I believe he was doing business in America or something like that. He owns a shipping company."

A snort escaped from Sherlock's lips. "Of course, Maxwell. The bloke with the chip on his shoulder. I recall him."

"You're one to talk about a chip on a shoulder," John retorted, already fed up with Sherlock's behavior, "And so help me, if you can't behave, you simply won't be invited to dinner."

"Please, I can conduct myself just fine. I was merely pointing out that Maxwell Warner thought highly of himself for a man coming from new money, especially in such an industry as shipping," He paused to glance at Molly, who was watching Sherlock with an intense gaze, "So, beware Lady Molly. He will be extremely attracted to your title and ties to oil in America."

Molly narrowed her gaze. "Why does it matter if I marry a man simply because he enjoys my wealth? You consider me so revolting that a man would hardly want me otherwise."

Sherlock sipped his tea again. "I was being polite and giving you a warning."

"I hardly need your concern or caution."

John sighed and rose to his feet. "Splendid. Well, I will let Mary know about Maxwell. Our supper tomorrow will be quite the grand affair."

He left the room, leaving Molly and Sherlock to simmer in the silence. Molly glanced back down to her father's letter, rereading the words with a sort of reverence that Sherlock wished he held for anything. He pushed his own letter aside, instead watching Molly with a startlingly intense curiosity.

"Tell me, Molly. There must be a pressing reason for your stay here. One that has your father concerned about your eligibility enough to send you to London," Sherlock remarked, sipping his tea, his eyes still locked on Molly.

Under his intense gaze, she couldn't help but blush, her mind briefly going back to the previous evening, and their kiss in the library. She shook off the thought and hastily folded her father's letter. She looked away.

She sighed, seemingly having an internal battle with herself. Finally, she looked back to Sherlock, her eyes showing worry.

"My father had a heart attack last spring. It's part of the reason why I haven't visited since Christmas. He's doing much better but… He's concerned that he could die."

Sherlock watched her, noticing the way her hands shook and her eyes grew sad.

"We didn't tell anyone. We didn't want the concern. But now, he's so terribly worried about dying before I get married," she sniffled and nibbled on her lip, "So, he thought sending me to London would be the best option. He knew John would help as well."

He kept his eyes locked on her cherubic face, admiring the reddening of her cheeks and the dark shade of her eyes. He cleared his throat and sipped his tea.

"I'm sorry to hear about your father, but I'm happy to hear his health is improving. My father died of a heart attack. I can only imagine the strain that has put you under," He found himself whispering, surprised by his own soft tone.

She nodded slowly, her eyes focused on the pristine white of the table cloth. "I love him so dearly. My father is my everything. He has been since my mum died. I don't know how I will survive when his time comes."

Sherlock studied her, weary of the way his heart twitched in his chest. "I lost my parents within weeks of each other. When my mother died of influenza, I think my father's heart simply gave out," He sighed and gazed into his empty teacup, thinking back to his childhood, "I was only fourteen when they died. My Aunt and Uncle, and my Grandfather, became my second family."

He looked away, thinking back to all the people he had lost. His heart felt heavy. "It's a shame how quickly someone you care about can disappear. Aunt Anne to infection, Uncle Patrick to an automobile accident, Grandfather to old age…"

He stopped and sighed, desperately ignoring the feeling of tears filling his eyes. "Sweet, little Harriet, only nineteen years old and already gone from tuberculosis. It's cruel."

Molly wiped her eyes, the memories of her Aunt, Uncle, and cousin squeezing the breath out of her. "Truthfully, I don't care about marriage. I don't care about the titles or the money. I just want to make my father happy," She whispered, her gaze dropping to her hands.

Sherlock studied her, surprised by her admission, and to him no less. "This is why you've rejected so many suitors?"

She nodded and met his gaze, her eyes tired. "It's certainly part of the reason."

He raised an eyebrow. "And I suppose you haven't found a man you thought worthy of you?"

She laughed softly and couldn't help but smile. "I did, in fact. Finn Howard. The Earl of Downey?" She smiled wistfully, her body thrown back into a whirlwind of memories, "He courted me quite hard. I was 17. He was… Perfect. Handsome, intelligent, funny…"

Sherlock thought back to the man. He did recall the name from the newspapers, and from the occasional social engagement, but while Molly was 17, he was shoulder deep in his studies at Oxford. He remembered little of the period, sans the slags and opium.

"He supported women's rights. He respected me as a person. My father loved him. John and he got along so well," she frowned and looked over her nails, suddenly feeling sick to her stomach. She sighed and shook her head.

Sherlock continued to study her. "It sounds like you had met the perfect man. Then why, Molly Hooper, did you turn him down?"

She forced herself to meet his penetrating blue gaze, her stomach doing flips at just hearing him utter her name. She let out a desperate laugh.

"Why did I reject him, Sherlock? Surely you must know."

He narrowed his gaze. "Was he a homosexual? Did he have a natural born child?"

She choked out a laugh. "No, you ignorant fool!"

Molly rose to feet, wrapping her arms around herself. She took a steadying breath and forced herself to meet his unrelenting gaze.

"He wasn't you, Sherlock. And as much as my brain desperately begged me to say yes, my seventeen-year-old heart had one object of affection. You and only you."

She moved to the door but stopped, her back still to his form. She sniffled and held her head up high, although never turning around.

"You need not worry, Mr. Holmes. My heart has learned its lesson. I will not be rejecting any further proposals."

She disappeared from the room, taking her rose-scented form and pink frock along with her. Sherlock blinked a few times, registering her words.

Had Molly really rejected so many proposals in her youth because she fancied him? How could he, the best detective in the commonwealth, have missed that?

 _I will not be rejecting any further proposals._

He scowled and stormed out of the room. He had a Russian Ambassador to meet.

Xxx

The following evening, the staff was milling about, working hard to ensure that Sir Maxwell Warner would be welcomed without a hitch. Sherlock loathed having guests stay at the estate. Aside from his general distaste for anything out of the ordinary (he was a steadfast creature of habit) and overall displeasure with most of humanity, he also could not stand the activities leading up to a new guest.

The odious scent of bleach and lye assaulting his nostrils, the busy-body nature of a one Mary Watson taking full form, the over-seasoned, exotic feast that would supersede his very normal, very British meal…

The list could go on.

And generally, Sherlock would avoid the Estate preparations prior to an important guest, normally by hiding out in his grandfather's library, or, if lucky, spend the day in the city with Detective Inspector Lestrade solving a case. Today, however, he was trapped within the Estate, per orders straight from the mistress of the home.

" _You better behave! So help me Sherlock, you will be the gentleman your parents raised you to be! One inappropriate peep out of you and I'll have Mycroft over for dinner for the next six weeks. Do you understand me?" Mary Watson declared, one hand on her hip, the other wagging precariously close to Sherlock's bored face._

 _He sighed. "Really, Mary? We're now using Mycroft to threaten me?"_

" _You give me no choice!" She crossed her arms and gave him a menacing look. "You may fool John by your attitude towards Molly. You even fool the dear girl. But you do not fool me, Sherlock Holmes!"_

 _Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "My, Mary, has the lye gotten to your head? Is your corset tied too tightly?"_

 _Mary let out a blustering yelp and stormed out, screaming about the nerve of him. As expected, Sherlock was unaffected by their conversation, and simply returned to his reading._

Of course, that had only been that morning, and after seemingly insulting Mary (he still didn't see how anything he said had been _that_ bad), he was punished to remain within the home, until whenever this moron shipping guru showed up with his heart on his sleeve.

The entire situation was frankly ludicrous. Why did Sherlock have to change his plans for the day to sulk about the home, waiting for Molly to meet some bloody prat from Sheffield, and decide whether he was worthy of her hand?

 _I will not be rejecting any further proposals._

Her words haunted him. Surely Molly wouldn't accept the hand of the first man to propose. Surely Molly would have higher standards than that. Surely Molly wasn't that desperate…

 _Bugger._

He wasn't sure why the thought filled him with dread.


End file.
